Bartleby

ANNOUNCER:Now, the Special English program, AMERICAN STORIES.

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Ourstory this week is called “Bartleby."  It was written by HermanMelville, one of America’s best-known writers.  Here is Shep O’Neal totell you the story in Special English.

STORYTELLER:I am an old lawyer, and I have three men working for me. My business continuedto grow and so I decided to get one more man to help write legal papers.

Ihave met a great many people in my days, but the man who answered myadvertisement was the strangest person I have ever heard of or met.

Hestood outside my office and waited for me to speak. He was a small man, quietand dressed in a clean but old suit of clothes.  I asked him hisname.  It was Bartleby.

Atfirst Bartleby almost worked himself too hard writing the legal papers I gavehim. He worked through the day by sunlight, and into the night by candlelight.I was happy with his work, but not happy with the way he worked. He was tooquiet. But, he worked well…like a machine, never looking or speaking.

Oneday, I asked Bartleby to come to my office to study a legal paper withme.  Without moving from his chair, Bartleby said: “I do not want to.”

Isat for a short time, too surprised to move. Then I became excited.

“Youdo not want to. What do you mean, are you sick? I want you to help me with thispaper.”

“Ido not want to.”

Hisface was calm. His eyes showed no emotion. He was not angry. This is strange, Ithought. What should I do? But, the telephone rang, and I forgot the problemfor the time being.

Afew days later, four long documents came into the office. They needed carefulstudy, and I decided to give one document to each of my men. I called and allcame to my office. But not Bartleby.

“Bartleby,quick, I am waiting.”

Hecame, and stood in front of me for a moment. “I don’t want to,” he said thenturned and went back to his desk.

Iwas so surprised, I could not move. There was something about Bartleby thatfroze me, yet, at the same time, made me feel sorry for him.

Astime passed, I saw that Bartleby never went out to eat dinner. Indeed, he neverwent anywhere. At eleven o’clock each morning, one of the men would bringBartleby some ginger cakes.

“Umm.He lives on them,” I thought.  “Poor fellow!” He is a little foolish attimes, but he is useful to me.

“Bartleby,”I said one afternoon. “Please go to the post office and bring my mail.”

“Ido not want to.”

Iwalked back to my office too shocked to think. Let’s see, the problem hereis…one of my workers named Bartleby will not do some of the things I ask him todo.  One important thing about him though, he is always in his office.

OneSunday I walked to my office to do some work. When I placed the key in thedoor, I couldn’t open it. I stood a little surprised, then called, thinkingsomeone might be inside. There was. Bartleby. He came from his office and toldme he did not want to let me in.

Theidea of Bartleby living in my law office had a strange effect on me. I slunkaway much like a dog does when it has been shouted at…with its tail between itslegs.

Wasanything wrong? I did not for a moment believe Bartleby would keep a woman inmy office. But for some time he must have eaten, dressed and slept there. Howlonely and friendless Bartleby must be.

Idecided to help him. The next morning I called him to my office.

“Bartleby,will you tell meanythingabout yourself?”

“Ido not want to.”

Isat down with him and said, “You do not have to tell me about your personalhistory, but when you finish writing that document…

“Ihave decided not to write anymore,” he said. And left my office.

Whatwas I to do? Bartleby would not work at all. Then why should he stay on hisjob? I decided to tell him to go. I gave him six days to leave the office andtold him I would give him some extra money. If he would not work, he mustleave.

Onthe sixth day, somewhat hopefully, I looked into the office Bartleby used. Hewas still there.

Thenext morning, I went to the office early. All was still. I tried to open thedoor, but it was locked. Bartleby’s voice came from inside. I stood as if hitby lightening. I walked the streets thinking. “Well, Bartleby, if you will notleave me, I shall leave you.”

Ipaid some men to move all the office furniture to another place. Bartleby juststood there as the men took his chair away.

“GoodbyeBartleby, I am going. Goodbye and God be with you. Here take this money.” I placed it in his hands. It dropped to the floor; and then, strange to say, Ihad difficulty leaving the person I wanted to leave me.

Afew days later, a stranger visited me in my new office.  “You areresponsible for the man you left in your last office,” he said.  The ownerof the building has given me a court order which says you must take him away.We tried to make him leave, but he returned and troubles the others there.

Iwent back to my old office and found Bartleby sitting on the empty floor.

“Bartleby,one of two things must happen. I will get you a different job, or you can go towork for some other lawyer.”

Hesaid he did not like either choice.

“Bartleby,will you come home with me and stay there until we decide what you will do?”

Heanswered softly, “No, I do not want to make any changes.”

Ianswered nothing more.  I fled. I rode around the city and visited placesof historic interest, anything to get Bartleby off my mind.

WhenI entered my office later, I found a message for me. Bartleby had been taken toprison.

Ifound him there, and when he saw me he said: “I know you, and I have nothing tosay to you.”

“ButI didn’t put you here, Bartleby.” I was deeply hurt.  I told him I gavethe prison guard money to buy him a good dinner.

“Ido not want to eat today, he said. I never eat dinner.”

Dayspassed, and I went to see Bartleby again.  I was told he was sleeping inthe prison yard outside.

Sleeping? The thin Bartleby was lying on the cold stones. I stooped to look at the smallman lying on his side with his knees against his chest.  I walked closerand looked down at him. His eyes were open. He seemed to be in a deep sleep.

“Won’the eat today, either, or does he live without eating?” the guard asked.

“Liveswithout eating,” I answered…and closed his eyes.

“Uh…heis asleep isn’t he?” the guard said.

“Withkings and lawyers,” I answered.

Onelittle story came to me some days after Bartleby died. I learned he had workedfor many years in the post office. He was in a special office that opened allthe nation’s letters that never reach the person they were written to. It iscalled the dead letter office.  The letters are not written clearly, sothe mailmen cannot read the addresses.

Well,poor Bartleby had to read the letters, to see if anyone’s name was writtenclearly so they could be sent. Think of it. From one letter a wedding ringfell, the finger it was bought for perhaps lies rotting in the grave. Anotherletter has money to help someone long since dead. Letters filled with hope forthose who died without hope.

PoorBartleby! He himself had lost all hope. His job had killed something insidehim.

Ah,Bartleby! Ah, humanity!

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ANNOUNCER:You have heard an AMERICAN STORY called "Bartleby."  It waswritten by Herman Melville. Your storyteller was Shep O’Neal. This is ShirleyGriffith.